


table

by syrupwit



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Dib is Of Legal Age (Invader Zim), Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Breathplay, Mild Humiliation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 09:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: This is not how he pictured getting Zim on a table, is the only coherent thought in Dib’s head.





	table

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags!
> 
> Dib is 18 here, and Zim is an adult bug alien who could be filing taxes. He isn't, but he could be.
> 
> <strike>This is archive-locked for a reason. If you think you might be part of the reason, buzz off.</strike> I have decided to unlock this for now.

This is not how he pictured getting Zim on a table, is the only coherent thought in Dib’s head. The rest of that admittedly capacious space is occupied with not smothering to death. He digs his fingertips harder into Zim’s skin, fighting to claim a pocket of air. He’s panting into Zim’s... junk, which is hot and wet and mercilessly close. A high, dizzy feeling pervades his body, and it’s not just due to the oxygen loss.

Zim grabs his hair, tugs upward. Dib seizes the chance to breathe. His eyes lock with Zim’s. He looks away first, gaze darting down Zim’s torso even though his vision is blurry without glasses. The green flesh is oddly flushed, scattered with new bruises and faded scars. There’s a mark from Dib’s mouth, the impression of blunt human teeth. Dib can’t help but make another.

Zim’s hand returns to prod his head lower. When Dib doesn’t budge, he gives a couple of impatient taps, as if he’s wrangling the last drops from a mostly empty ketchup bottle. It’s so like him that Dib laughs into the half-formed hickey, a tad hysterically. But he gets back to work, this time fucking Zim with his tongue.

Zim’s hips arch even higher off the table. The knee hooked around Dib’s neck tightens, the heel of Zim’s boot jabbing his back. He’s never going to look at the boots the same way again. On the street, at skool, breaking into Zim’s base, he’s going to have to see them and think of this every time. Dib’s mind supplies an image of himself—fully clothed, in public, _ normal _—bending to touch his lips to a boot at Zim’s demand, and—

“Yes,” Zim moans, “more of that, yes, _yes_, you filthy, horrible thing,” and he’s off, babbling insults the way someone else might voice endearments. The tone does it for Dib as much as the content. It’s been a good few years since he started having to run away and calm down whenever Zim ridiculed him with sufficient crispness, but it’s been a while longer since he stopped yearning for someone to praise him.

Zim chirps and whines, rubbing himself all over Dib’s face. Seems he won’t last much longer. Stuff is leaking down Dib’s chin, dripping onto his chest. That sounds gross. It’s not gross. It’s amazing, actually. Zim smells and tastes like nothing Dib has encountered before. He’s used to the way Zim’s blood smells, has even tasted it by accident a few times, but this is… weird and different and kind of intoxicating, and holy fucking shit Zim is riding his face so hard he can’t fucking breathe.

Zim spasms once, twice, and then Dib is choking on a flood of alien sex fluids. He breaks away, spluttering, and rips off his soaked shirt to dab at his face and hair.

“You could have warned me,” he complains.

Zim’s too blissed out to respond. Or maybe he’s just chosen to lie still, eyes shut and mouth slack, antennae askew like they’ve gone offline. It’s hard to tell. Dib takes the opportunity to look at him again. He’s never seen Zim so bare: divested of even his leggings, his skinny bug legs hanging out of his boots. There’s something pathetic about it, but it’s appealing too, in a way that goes beyond wanting to see his enemy vanquished. Again, not how he expected things to happen with a table.

Despite everything, Dib is hard. He’s used to ignoring it, especially where Zim is concerned, but Zim is _ naked _ and his thighs are open and he can _ smell _him. He smells so good. Fuck. Did he just twitch?

He plants a sweaty hand on Zim’s knee, trying to keep his eyes on Zim’s face.

“Zim,” he says, “is it okay if I, um. Is it okay if. Can I. Do you mind if, uh, I mean, do you want me to…”

“Go for it.” Zim flaps a hand. He’s slurring his words. His eyes are still closed.

Dib’s not sure. He fumbles his dick out of his pants and puts a hand on Zim’s waist and lines himself up, and he’s still not sure. He tries to go in really, really slowly, giving Zim lots of time to push him off. There’s hurting Zim in a fight, and there’s hurting Zim like this; one is okay, even good, while the other is so far from okay that he doesn’t know how to quantify it. But.

“Oh,” says Zim, when Dib slides home. “_Oh_.” His legs curl around Dib again, pulling him even deeper, grinding lazy circles that send lightning through Dib’s brain. “This is obviously your purpose. You should be like this all the time.”

“I’m multipurpose,” says Dib; hopeful, alight, hiding in the crook of Zim's neck.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to get all hostile in the beginning notes! I'm wary, I guess. But still posting this. (Again.)
> 
> Thank you to Chaifootsteps for inspiring this, and to everyone on Discord for their feedback and help. :D 
> 
> There are a couple of longer, higher-rated IZ fics I've been working on, so look out for those in the next month or so maybe. (But I'll still be writing lower-rated fluff. And maybe lower-rated comedy? And maybe lower-rated horror... Higher-rated horror... Mid-rated horror... IDK, man, I'm enjoying the flow.)


End file.
